


creature fear

by sweggscellent



Category: Law & Order: SVU
Genre: Established Relationship, Flashbacks, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Kissing, M/M, POV Second Person, Panic Attacks, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Sexual Content, Stream of Consciousness, spoilers for s18e7 'The Next Chapter'
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-07
Updated: 2017-01-08
Packaged: 2018-09-15 11:17:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,291
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9232493
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sweggscellent/pseuds/sweggscellent
Summary: Your hands will not stop shaking.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> spoiler alert for s18e7 "the next chapter", trigger warning for descriptions of panic attacks/post-traumatic stress  
> i was too full of emotion  
> [recommended listening](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uihhoq23vUI)

By the time you arrive home that night, your hands have still not ceased in their shaking. It’s frustrating, how this seems to be the only thing you can’t control; there was no tremor in your voice, no more rigidity to your body than usual. You couldn’t manage anything resembling a genuine smile and you know you were being obvious when you dodged Liv’s concerned glances while you said goodnight, but otherwise, everything was fine. Everything  _is_ fine. 

Your hands will not stop shaking.

You are restless, pacing around your apartment. You know what’s happening, and you know you should call somebody, but there’s so much going on in your head right now that you feel any more noise would just cause you to break down (as if you aren’t already, as if you haven’t already been broken).

It is then that you realise your phone has, in fact, been blessedly silent. There’s been no word from Barba, and to you, that means one of two things; he’s either busy with his work and worrying over you and Olivia inside his own brain (there’s no way he’s not heard by now), or he’s deliberately avoiding contacting you because he has a good idea of what must be going on in your head right now and --

There is no possible way you’re going to be able to avoid him.

The thought freezes every part of you for a split second, even the restless tremor making your fingertips cold, but then the shaking starts back up again double time.

Your heart is racing against your ribcage and you haven’t stopped your incessant striding, and now you’re _noticing_ all sorts of things, like how breathless you’re becoming and how it seems like every single light in your entire home is on, and their brightness is growing in intensity until it's blinding you through the narrow tunnel of your vision. There was no noise in your apartment before outside of your restless shuffling and breathless pants, but now all of that not-noise is starting to fade into something resembling deadly silence, and then that’s all there is, it’s deadly and death, dying, _dead_ , and blood, and it’s _on_ you, and _oh my_ _God, this is it--_

“Sonny.”

It’s as if someone’s doused you with ice water, and suddenly you’re back, breathless and shaking harder than before. It travels through your gut, over your skin and through your shoulders and into your jaw. Your teeth are chattering quietly.

Barba’s there, then, and you missed him coming into your apartment; how long have you been home? His long, warm fingers are on your face and his hazel eyes are searching yours and he looks so good and so _real_. That’s all you can focus on; everything inside you feels like dead weight, and there’s that word again.

Dead.

“What?” Barba asks, voice concerned and breathless. Did you say that out loud? You focus on his eyes again and somehow everything floods back at once, and you lean your forehead down against his, your eyes falling shut as your entire body goes loose with your exhale.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, and your throat feels scratchy.

“For what?” Barba asks, and when his fingers go into your hair, combing through the gel and blood and fear sweat, he’s not Barba anymore; he’s Rafael.

“I haven’t showered yet,” you manage somehow to say, and when Rafael laughs quietly, it sounds a little sad but it lights you up all the same, and that makes you feel a little more normal.

“Do you want to take a shower?” Rafael asks quietly, and you realise now that he’s probably cleared his schedule for the night for this, because that’s who he is. You nod and open your eyes again, tired and aching. A shower sounds like heaven.

Rafael leads you quietly through your apartment, and it feels nice to have someone to focus on in a familiar environment. You feel safe as he pulls you into the bathroom, shutting the door behind both of you. You lock it and try not to think too hard on what that implies, because you never lock the bathroom door. Rafael doesn’t say anything; instead he turns and starts the shower, letting the water heat up while he comes back to you and sets to work getting you out of your clothes.

His fingers are deft and careful against each catch and button, methodical in the way he removes each piece of clothing. He strips quickly and efficiently once you’re bare, and the way he turns his wrists to undo his cufflinks makes something else normal spark inside you, however muffled that spark is.

The heat and pressure of the water do exactly what you’d hoped they would, and when Rafael gently turns you around so that he can roll the heels of his hands into your back, your eyes flutter closed and everything else fades into white noise.

It feels like you’re warming from the outside in; it’s an incredibly slow and tedious process, and by the time Rafael guides both of you out of the shower, your skin is flushed bright pink and every muscle in your body feels like jelly.

You’re exhausted, from the top of your head to your feet, inside and out. It feels as though overload has caused your mind to shut down so that the basic, necessary functions are all that remain.

The next time you consciously glance down, Rafael has somehow managed to get you into sweatpants and a shirt. When you look to him, he’s also dressed; he comes to you and puts his hands on your face.

“Look at me.”

You do.

“Can you speak?” His tone is gentler than you’ve ever heard it, but there’s still a sharp edge to it that you can’t help but notice. He’s worried, probably more so than he’s ever been about you.

You have to glance away for just a moment to think about the question, and when you shift your eyes back to him, you shake your head.

“Do you want to see a psychiatrist?” You know this isn’t really a question; his tone brokers no protest, and of course there’s no real way to say no to it anyway, so you swallow tightly, and you nod.

“But not tonight,” you murmur.

Rafael nods. “We’ll see how you feel tomorrow,” he says, and the decision is made. His hands feel good on your skin, and it feels nice to not have to think, at least for tonight.

“Are you hungry?” Rafael asks quietly moments later, and you nod without really thinking about the question, because objectively, you know you probably need to eat something. His thumbs stroke over your cheekbones once, twice, before he drops his hands to take one of yours.

You are led to your living room; once Rafael has guided you into sitting on the couch, he drapes a blanket over your body and, with the vulnerability of an open wound, leans down to press his lips against your forehead. You reach desperately for him, hands sliding over his neck, and the rub of stubble over your fingertips helps to chase away all the frenetic, overwrought thoughts in your head.

“I couldn’t think,” you find yourself saying against your will, against your own ability. “All I could think about was how that was it, that was the end. I felt the bullet go through my own skull when Liv got him.” It feels like bile spilling past your lips in an incorrigible flow, acrid and sour behind your teeth. “I was so scared, Raf,” you admit quietly. Your hands are shaking again. "I was so scared."

Rafael is silent for a long while, lips still warm on your skin. Finally, he pulls away enough to tilt your chin up towards his face and look you in the eye. His are soft, tender as a bruise, and when he speaks, tears well unbidden in your own. “I was, too,” he says. “I still am.” And that isn’t something you thought you’d ever hear put into words from him; it’s enough to make you dizzy again, though it isn’t like that’s a particularly difficult feat at the moment.

“We’re going to be okay,” Rafael insists firmly. He strokes his thumbs over your cheekbones again and your eyelids flutter with the feeling. _I feel safe_ , you remind yourself. “You’re right here.” You hear the unspoken _I’m right here_ echoing behind it. _I love you_.

After a few moments of motionless silence, Rafael moves away from you. “I’ll be back,” he says, almost fidgeting, like he doesn’t want to leave you. “I’m going to make you something to eat. Will you be okay for a few minutes?”

You nod even though you’re unsure that you will be, because the longer you wait, the more appealing the idea of food becomes.

You focus on the sounds of Rafael rummaging around in your kitchen; the soft clink of glasses tapping against shelves as he pulls them down, the gentle metallic scrape of pans dragging against one another. You swallow and focus on your breathing, trying to push Tom Cole’s fractured, desperate expression from your mind and failing utterly. You can still feel the metal push of his gun’s barrel against your skin.

In the end, you wrap the blanket Rafael had left you with around your shoulders and make your way into the kitchen. It looks like he’s making soup for you; there is an open container of chicken broth sitting on the counter and you can hear the staccato sound of a knife against a wooden cutting board.

You pad across the kitchen and press yourself carefully against Rafael’s back, trying not to startle him. He must have sensed your presence or, more likely, predicted that you would end up in here with him, because he immediately relaxes against you, deft hands not pausing in their chopping.

Neither of you speak as he finishes cooking for you. You eat together, standing with your hips tilted against the countertop. Rafael has a potholder buffering the heat of his bowl; yours is cradled in bare palms, skin flushing with the heat. It’s something to focus on.

“Sonny,” Rafael says quietly. When you don’t respond, he tries again with a firmer, “Dominick.”

You swallow and your eyes go to his. He looks tired, worried and stern, and like he loves you so much it’s hurting him.

“Eat,” he commands.

You comply. It takes a while to get through the entire bowl; Rafael is done with his long before you are, but he’s patient with you as you finish your meal. He speaks quietly to you about his day, and that’s something to focus on, too; it’s easy to listen to him, even more so knowing there is no pressure to respond.

When you finally finish eating, Rafael gently takes the bowl from your hands and rinses it out in the sink for you. Wordlessly, he takes you by the arm and leads you through your apartment again, shutting off lights as he goes.

You take Rafael’s face to kiss him gently when you reach your bedroom. Shucking the blanket from your shoulders onto your bed, you make your own way to the bathroom to brush your teeth. You analyze yourself in the mirror as you do so; the part of your greying hair, the tired lines around blue eyes, the stretch of your neck. You’re very gradually coming back to yourself. It is a slow and tedious process.

You spit, rinsing your mouth more times than necessary and trying to convince yourself you do not taste blood. When you switch off the light and walk back into your bedroom, the blanket that had been around your shoulders previously sits folded on the end of your bed. Rafael is there, too, elbows resting on his knees, hands hanging linked in the space between. He seems to be focused on nothing.

You study his long, pretty fingers, the lithe backs of his hands, the veins traveling up his arms. When he finally notices you (why are you walking so quietly?), he stands and gestures to the bed.

“I’m going to turn out the light,” he says.

You nod and shuffle into bed, pulling your duvet tight across your shoulders. “Lock the door, please,” you say quietly, and Rafael doesn’t comment on it as he does.

When he slides into bed beside you, you press close to him, facing each other. Your eyes haven’t adjusted to the dark quite yet, so you search out his face with your fingertips; they trace over the slope of his nose and the soft give of his lips, pressing gently and reminding you that he’s real.  _I'm safe._

You shift even closer, moving your fingers so that your lips can take their place. Rafael kisses you slowly, like he means it, like he’s scared you’ll slide from the grip he has on you. Like his perspective has shifted, just as yours has.

It’s another thing to focus on, though, this endless, replete warmth between both of you; you can feel yourself going pliant with each brush of his mouth against yours, and you feel safe with him. You remember Liv’s words, her breathless insistence that you were okay, that you _are_ okay.

You are okay.

Rafael kisses you until your body has gone soft, until your gestures slow and the curl of your fingers loosens. He kisses you until your breathlessness turns to hyperventilation, and then til that turns into a lax pattern of inhaling and exhaling. It pulls you further into yourself, like the rope tethering a ship to its anchor.

He is real. He’s here. You’re here.

You don’t remember shutting your eyes, but when you realise the peace you're finally able to find behind your eyelids, however fleeting, the dark respite helps in calming your erratic heartbeat.

“I love you,” Rafael is saying, and you’re too tired to say it back, but he knows. He murmurs this to you over and over, like a prayer, until it fades to white noise and the darkness turns whole and consumes you.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The nightmares don’t start until a few nights later.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is mostly vent fic honestly, i don't know how far i'm going to take it or where it's really headed  
> enjoy...?

The nightmares don’t start until a few nights later.

It’s the same scene; you murmur to Liv that you’re going to see if you can get eyes on Tom Cole, she mouths at you to be careful. Your heart is pounding in your chest, as impossibly hard as it did that day; you can feel the trepidation making your bones leaden, helping nausea to blossom unwelcome in your gut.

The only difference this time is that you know exactly what’s coming.

You continue your path up the stairs, though, unable to stop. You can hear Quinn’s muffled cries; they propel you forward as a shimmering bright light attracting that moth-flutter heart of yours that begs to do good. Your feet move of their own accord; your gun does not shake in your grip.

You kick the doors in and see Quinn there, shaking and pale; it both relieves you and fills you with blood-curdling dread to see her sitting there, cheeks tear-stained, mouth secured with duct tape. She’s shaking her head at you desperately, but you’re so overwhelmed with relief, with anxiety, with--

You turn, and you’re met with the promising, unrelenting end of Tom Cole’s gun. Immediately your blood goes cold and your breath escapes you in a gasp. You don’t know what to do; the fear washing over you feels paralyzing and real, gripping you tighter than you thought possible.

You can’t concentrate on any of the words coming out of either of your mouths; your focus is on his face, on the desperate, unraveled look in his dark eyes, the crumple of his brow. He looks like a monster, hulking and on edge, and you aren’t ready to die yet.

Tom Cole whispers something to you that you don’t quite catch, and then there’s the sharp crack of a gunshot, the splatter of warm blood against your face, and a shivering, shrill ringing that won’t fucking _stop--_

You shoot up in bed, gasping, throat raw and cheeks wet. Rafael is there, too, and you’d forgotten he was staying over tonight-- No. The dark grey sheets straining in your white-knuckled grip do not belong to you.

That is the only detail of your location that you can get down. Distantly, in some foggy part of your mind, you know that you’re at Rafael’s apartment, you know he’s rubbing your back and murmuring soothing things to you in a low tone, but your universe has shrunken down to: the violent shaking of your hands, the pounding of your panicked heart, the manner in which your vision has gone double.

Very gradually, your mind calms and clears. You blink hard, tears falling from your lashes, and you try to take deeper breaths. Rafael’s warm palm is unremitting against your back, and you concentrate on the patterns he is rubbing into your skin.

After what feels like ages, you chance a tentative look around the room. Your eyes have not fully adjusted to the dark yet; you can make out the time painted in neon green numbers against the face of Rafael’s alarm clock. It’s past three in the morning. You take a breath, eyes not straying from the glowing digits.

“Sorry for waking you,” you murmur, and the words come out ragged and tired.

“You don’t need to apologise,” Rafael whispers back, and his tone sounds like he’s telling the truth, so you try to let you shoulders relax.

You both knew this was likely to happen, logically and because your doctor said so; it was just a matter of when. Liv has (graciously) forced you into taking a couple of weeks to yourself. At first you had wanted to argue with the fierce insistence that you were fine, that seeing a psychiatrist would be enough; now, sitting cold and trembling in the dark of Rafael’s bedroom, drying tears making your skin itch and a thousand incoherent thoughts racing through your mind, you are grateful for the reprieve.

What feels like hours later, you finally relax and drag your body back down to the bed, sinking into it. You curl in on yourself, rolling to your side and tucking your knees up by your chest; you feel heavy and exhausted, like you’ve been dragged through gravel and broken glass.

Rafael silently molds himself around you, bracing himself protectively against your body. He feels warm and solid pressed so close and you are grateful for this, too.

* * *

The next morning, you wake slowly to the insistent patter of rain against glass. Rafael is still asleep; it seems you swapped positions during the night and now your cheek is pressed against his back, sleep-warm through his shirt, arm curled over his waist. You can feel the rise and fall of his even breathing and it lights a spark of affection in your chest.

Carefully, you pull away from Rafael’s comforting heat so that you can trace light patterns over his back. The fabric of his shirt is soft and pleasant against your fingertips and you lose yourself in this mindless repetition.

You think idly of Rafael and how lucky you are to have him in your life, and in so many different aspects. It’s unlikely, all of this; being here, in this bed with this man under these circumstances. You knew anything was possible in this line of work, but things like what happened to you can’t possibly be put into bone-raw perspective until they actually happen.

You are grateful for the unlikely second chance at a life that you were always unlikely to find yourself a part of. As agonizing as all of this is, as arduous and gradual and torturous the process is already proving to be, it gives you drive. It gives you purpose.

You pray to God that the drive never slips from your hands, that the purpose doesn’t dissolve into something more resembling resentment.

Rafael shifts once, and then he’s rolling over with bleary, half-open eyes as you pull your hand away from him. A soft light sparks in his eyes, smeared against the dull mist of sleep still present in them, when he catches you looking at him. Some of that light catches in your chest.

Sluggishly, Rafael reaches out to cup a warm palm against your jaw, cradling your face. Your eyes roll shut at the contact, and it is now that you realise how badly you’ve missed this sort of physical contact, this consuming warmth. Ever since the incident with Tom Cole, you’ve felt aching and empty; you’ve been too disoriented to even consider bringing up the topic of intimacy, and Rafael has been avoiding it as well, likely out of courtesy.

Moving on impulse, you lean in so that you can brush your parted lips over Rafael’s, hoping to convey the things you don’t think you can say right now. Rafael has always been extremely adept at reading people (it comes with the territory), and he’s only gotten better at it with you the longer you’ve been together; he responds in kind, lips pressing into yours in a way that’s had you convinced since the first time that your bodies were made to fit together like this.

Your arms bracket themselves on either side of Rafael’s head so that you’re half-on top of him. He kisses you like he’s drowning, and maybe he is.

Maybe you both are.

Already the spark is threatening to inflame you; your body is a pyre, burning hot at each tug of teeth, at each soft noise you can coax from Rafael’s distressed mouth. His hands are restless, touching greedily wherever he can reach, wherever he can think to put them.

“I love you,” you breathe harshly when your mouth disconnects from his, breathless and foolhardy in the still of his bedroom. The rain is still hitting the window. “I love you, I love you,” you say over and over, the words falling from your tongue unabashedly, worshipful. You press more kisses into Rafael’s neck and he arches up against you, fingers carding through your hair as he gasps for air. The fluid writhing of his body and the sounds he makes for you have your chest constricting with more emotion than you think you can are capable of holding.

You don’t know you’re crying until it’s already happening, body crumpling down as you bury your flushed, shameful face into Rafael’s neck. It’s frustrating, this seemingly endless loop of desperation and grief and anxiety that grips you without permission, especially in moments as important as these.

Rafael is hushing you quietly, stroking careful hands over your back in sweeping motions. Cautiously, he maneuvers both of you around until you’re the one underneath him. He leans down to press his mouth against yours again.

“Let me make you feel good,” he says quietly, and it is all you can do to nod and accept his affection.

Rafael takes his time with you, as though handling fractured ceramic. He distracts you from the frustration, his mouth a burning cinder on the cloth of your skin.

It isn’t long before Rafael has your body arching, starving for more. He undresses you, caution and affection slowing the path of his hands as he does. You are vulnerable and raw; the sweat pooling in your collarbones and against your hairline feels like blood. It is then that Rafael decides to come back to your mouth, kissing away the harshness you didn’t realise had drawn your lips taut.

You relax again and focus on your breathing, the length of your spine, Rafael’s mouth making an indulgent, wandering trail down your stomach to where your cock lies half-interested against your hip. He pauses when he gets there, letting his dark eyes flicker up to hold your gaze for a heady, sharp moment, and the flames lick higher.

Finally, when he wraps his lips around you perfectly, sweetly, and sucks, every part of your body lights up brilliantly. A high whine is all that manages to escape you, though, overwhelmed with the feeling of Rafael’s mouth taking you in further, deeper.

“Raf,” you gasp, spine tensed for different reasons now, back curving in a sharp bow. It’s as though he’s tossed lighter fluid into the coals burning beneath your skin and all of that pacing from before is now being eaten up in a trail of fire. Your eyes roll back and he takes you even further, mouth wet and impossibly good; you are reaching for that end, every muscle wound tight with it.

It’s the feeling of Rafael brushing his fingers affectionately over the sensitive insides of your thighs that sends you tumbling down, down into that endless, burning white. Your body is awash with sensation; the tingling of your skin, the curling of your toes, fingers tightening in hair gone grey with stress.

You are hyper-aware of the damp between your thighs when Rafael pulls away from you, of the damp veiling your skin, and of the damp streaking your cheeks and gathering at the hollow of your throat. Rafael’s body is a warm and welcome respite when he shifts himself further up and presses into you, kissing your face and swiping away all of the discomforting wet.

You sob openly now, the first time you’ve consciously allowed yourself to since it happened. Your chest is a hopeless tangle of emotions; you do not know what to do with yourself, unsure of how to fit your fingers into the web to unravel it.

The rain continues to fall as Rafael holds you, his hands more fit for the task than your own.

**Author's Note:**

> i'm finally writing an svu fic, are you proud of me mom


End file.
